oh, unendless grace.

....I leave for Baltimore, Maryland, Tuesday. Getting to fly far away couldn't come soon enough.

So much of me longs to be flying away to my home.
But of course I know that there is no such place, now, and I've been feeling the fact that I am an exile and longing for the city whose builder and maker is God, more than ever these days. And yet, in the midst of a dry and vague season I am eager to see if the Lord has a place where I can finally unpack my clothes into a dresser and dive into others' lives. Seattle, Minneapolis, Philadelphia....or who knows where.


I'm hoping that as I visit the east coast things will be made clear. I've been so confused, lately, about everything. I was once fairly confident that I had an idea of the path God had for me, even which desires of mine were His, too. Not so much, anymore.
But it is a sweet thing, because I know He will accomplish everything in His time.

All this to say I would love your prayers for me in the next two weeks, that I would feel a strong sense of where I should be in this next season, and even regarding the calling of my life.
Especially pertaining Philadelphia: I'm hoping to be able to take the train up to check out schools at sometime during the trip. If you actually read this blog, you probably know me well enough to know that I've been absolutely infatuated with this city ever since I was a little girl. I read books and books on the city of brotherly love as a second grader, cherished every story my nana told me about our Quaker abolitionist ancestors in Pennsylvania. In high school, I was convinced I was being led there for the sake of the kingdom among the arts and hip-hop communities. Needless to say, my dream might be a little shattered if I don't even like it. :)

On that note, I am grateful for you my dear friends! Especially if you have made it to the end of this post. Much love.

Grace and peace,

Rosie

An emo letter to a misogynist.

If you asked me if I loved you, I would say, “No. “ And if you came into Hard Times and our eyes locked, or if you saw me in the corner with my book, I would walk out without turning back, without whispering a hi or even waving. If your best friend asked me if I still had feelings for you, I would vehemently let the words stream out of my mouth, how I don't have a drop of respect for you, and can't believe your arrogance and how you treat people, and everything I said would be true. If my friends asked about you, I would say you hurt me over and over, and they would say you are a jerk, or even an ***hole, and I should never talk to you again, and I would agree.

But if you said you were sorry, with tears in your eyes, I would cry.

And if you sent me flowers, I would wonder.

And if you looked at me with eyes opened, I would hope for redemption, and I would hope we could call it new. I would hope He would call it new.

And if I had breakfast with a friend, and she asked if I was seeing someone, I might say, “No. No one I love loves me.” “....Who do you love?” And without thinking, between bites of blueberry pancake, I would say your name, easier than anything I said all morning.

She would laugh and say, “Is he your one true love?” But later I would wonder.

And if I dreamt about you, I would dream you were on the North Shore, and thinking of me, and I would wake up with a tear soaked pillow, and hoping it was true.

And if I wore my monkey pants I would think of you throwing pebbles on my window, and of your salt and pepper hair in my lap, Southside.

And if you went away and forgot me, the girl who never was much for you, I would still think of you.

And wonder why I do.

Tell me you smell my secrets.

Khary Jackson is one of my favorite slam poets. At the National Slam this year, his poem left me in tears. Because he has an amazing stage presence, the youtube won't do it justice, but you should check out his work, anyways.

At NPS 2010

Official website

Not Yet, But Soon.

When I was little, my mom germinated plants in the winter.

In Minnesota, winter doesn't mean more drizzle and extra chilly winds. It means snow up to your knees and fingers that fall off. And while the wind blew below zero outside in the dead of winter, the seeds were sheltered inside.

She kept them in our basement. I hated that basement. I tried to never go down there, not even to get ice cream. The shit piling high on the sides of the steps was enough, but it was dark, down there. The concrete floor was missing in places, and sand was all over. There were rats and mice and bugs, oozing mold, and enough sawdust from my dad's workbench to leave you feeling gritty. When I wanted a treat badly enough to go down there, I descended the steps with dread, creaked the door open, reached for the light switch as fast as possible, and snatched whatever I wanted from the freezer, slamming the top shut with vehemence.
I always leaped back up the stairs inhumanely fast and still remember the relief I felt once I was safely on the other side of the back entry door in the kitchen.

But there, among the vermin and the dirt and the cold dark, the seeds were left on shelves, right under a buzzing fluorescent lamp. All winter long.

And when the snow began to thaw into puddles on the sidewalks, and there were buds on the trees, I would put on my jelly shoes and blue striped dress ("It's not warm enough for THAT, Rosie!") and my mom would dig in the dirt and plant what she had kept in the basement, now seedlings.

I was always relieved when it was their time to be out in the sun and green and fresh air, having secretly felt bad for them all winter.

Of course, the ones that had been put under the lamp the longest always did best. They never withered.


I never thought the image of the sole light from the fluorescent in the basement that I saw as a six year old girl would now mean so much to me.



There is a time, coming.

And darkness makes roots grow down deep.

You think you're in a place you don't want to be- but you're probably just germinating.

God doesn't exploit, and he doesn't lie.

I'm not impressed by you
up in my mind
I like you better
You don't

get that tone
snip in those words
or stare at the floor when I am in front of you
pin my arms behind

I walked up Queen Anne
scratches not yet scabbed

nails scraped over
like the way

you said those words
that ran over my exterior
I flinched
and pretended I didn't hear the sound
or feel the way
it dug in deep

Tell me,
are those sweet words
You say
accompanied by
bitter aftertaste
the salt circling around in your mouth

My puppy ducks down
when I reach to pet
And I'm jerking away
earlier than Jasmine

Let me say
I almost know now
that He doesn't lie
when He says
Please be mine

It's raining and I'm hiding again.

I'm at Irwin's for the last time.

Irwin's is where I always go to write in Seattle. It's a coffee shop stuck in the midst of residential houses at the UW. It's earthy and looks like a cottage inside-yellow plaster, victorian style sage green woodwork.
And the baristas are all eerily drop dead gorgeous. One looks like Norah Jones.
(I try not to creep when I sit in my wicker chair with my latte-but no matter how hard I try I end up wondering what she likes to do when she is not baking blueberry muffins, what kind of things run across her mind when she bikes home in the rain.)
She has long dark hair with red streaks on the back of her ponytail, olive skin and thick, clean cut arched brows with two piercings on the end.
I don't know what it is about her-maybe it's the delicate silver leaves she wears dangling from her ears, or the fact that she looks so unnecessarily angry while brewing coffee, contrary to her soft features, that intrigues me.

I aspire to be a girl like that. That sounds shallow, but I think there is something to be said about mystery. For me, that is the beauty of women. Of course, most women always end up not being as interesting or as beautiful as the curve of their waist makes them out to be-it seems as if all they really care about is having a good time on Friday night or that their BFF told Sam about such and such. But I like to hope there are depths to them.

Bur really, I like Irwin's because no one I know knows about it. I have lots of havens, like that. It's my own secret.
It's weird to think I will not be back here soon.
Maybe I'll scrawl something out hidden in Wallingford in a few years-but for now-I have to go.

I need to learn to let go.

Princess Mononoke

Call me Princess Mononoke

I'm dripping with blood

not of a demon forest wolf 

but of a man

sacrificed

my fingertips are stained red

so I wear a ring

and in it 

is a white stone

Pure through a murder

blood over my head

blood on my hands 

Should be guilty

but this death, 

and this darkness

has turned into light

and deemed me worthy

and valuable

accusations 

will drip off my forehead

fended off

by the blood

that is trickling down

just the same. 

Call me princess mononoke

I've shed one life

for another

traded my humanness

through bloodshed

for peace. 

One name

for another. 

Drink Coffee Black

Who is this one?

Turning bitter into sweet,
It doesn't matter what.
Sorrow more sharp than denatonium,
glass full to the brim.
Gives me one glance 
and I'm eating honey from the comb. 

this one
stole all of me,
don't know where I went. 
Sitting in airports
not quite alone. 
Got me letting go
got me letting go happy. 

Who is this one-
and what is this love, 
that every lip would look like 
ordure, 
and every offer in the elevator,
every handsome face
morphs before me 
into nothing but a pile of ashes,
a speck of lint. 

Who is this one
who has me begging to 
cease to be me

and who is this man
that he would only ever invite
only ever propose

I don't know where I went. 
Tried to look down at my feet
but my eyes no longer shift side to side. 

Roses rarely
turn into doves. 
But it's a new day

and this One
makes rivers in low places
and ashes to flesh
and the bitter

into sweet. 

I'm back.

It has been months since I have even visited this blog. 

I have not stopped writing for even a minute-it's just all been scribbled into my moleskins and sketchbooks, into my mac at Starbucks, onto bulletins crammed into my messenger bag. 

But I thought maybe I should I begin writing on here, again.